r/MaliciousCompliance - Ignore My Advice? GRAVITY And SPEED Have A Second Opinion!

0:00Hello and welcome back to Karma Stories, I'm Rob and I hope you are having a wonderful day today. Today I have a listener submitted story from a person who listens on Spotify. They sent us this story from a person named Jordan and it's about a mechanic in a mechanic shop and a horrible customer who doesn't think the mechanic is treating them well. I hope you enjoy this one, it's going to be awesome. On to today's story, let's jump right in. This story is titled It's Just a Noise, don't try to upsell me. Background, the grind. I've been wrenching for 32 years. I started back when diagnostics meant putting a screwdriver to your ear and listening to the valve cover, not plugging a $10,000 tablet into a port to have a computer tell you that another computer is sad. I'm 53. My knees sound like a bag of gravel when I crouch. My lower back has a permanent grudge against concrete floors and my hands are permanently stained with that specific mix of grease,

1:00brake dust and regret that no amount of orange goop can scrub off. I work at a solid independent shop now. We aren't a dealership, so we don't have marble floors and free espresso. We aren't a quick loop chain, so we don't hire teenagers who think torque to spec means hold the trigger until the ugly dug a stop. We do honest work, we charge for it absolutely. I'm not running a charity and snap on trucks don't take good vibes as payment, but we don't invent problems. The thing about modern cars is that you don't need to invent problems. They're engineered to fail. They're rolling piles of plastic, planned obsolescence, and sealed units designed to be thrown away rather than fixed. The vehicle. It's 8.30am on a Tuesday in November. The sky is that flat gray color that promises freezing rain. The shop is cold because the heater in bay 3 is rattling like a dying diesel. And I'm on my second cup of coffee that tastes like it was brewed through a dirty shop rag. Dave, my service writer, slaps a ticket on the counter.

2:02Dave is a good guy. He's soft-spoken, hates confrontation, and has the patience of a saint, which makes him perfect for the front desk and terrible for delivering bad news. 2017 Hyundai Santa Fe, Dave says, sliding the keys across the formica, winter prep, oil change, swap the summers for winters, they're on rims in the back, and a general safety check customer is waiting. I grab the ticket, name is Brenda. I walk out to the lot. The Santa Fe is silver. Of course it is. It's the sport trim, which is marketing speak for. We added a spoiler, but kept the anemic forer cylinder. It's got around 85,000 miles on the clock. I open the door and I'm immediately hit with the smell. It's not a bad smell, just intense. It smells like vanilla hanging air fresheners, sanitizer, and stale starbucks. The interior is typical mom command center. There are empty juice boxes in the door cards, a layer of crushed Cheerios ground into the carpet that will outlast human civilization, and a dusting of glitter on the passenger seat

3:06that I know, just know, is going to end up on my butt. I put the plastic seat cover on, throw the paper mat on the floor, and fire it up. The engine sounds okay. A little ticky, Hyundai GDI engines always sound like sewing machines running on gravel, but nothing alarming. I pull it into the bay, I line it up, kick the lift arms underneath, and check the lift points. I pause to look at the tires currently on the car. All seasons, uneven wear. The outer shoulders are chewed up. That's clue number one. The inspection. I lift the car to waste height. I start with the shake down. This is standard procedure. Before I even look at the brakes, I need to know if the wheels are actually attached to the car in a meaningful way. I walk to the passenger front, I grab the tire at the 3 and 9 o'clock positions and wiggle. Solid. I grab 12 and 6, top and bottom, and wiggle, solid, nice and tight. I walk to the driver's front. I grab 3 and 9, a little play in the tire rod, acceptable for the mileage.

4:08I grab 12 and 6, clunk, clunk, my eyebrows shoot up. That wasn't a subtle tick. That was the sound of metal slapping metal with zero resistance. I do it again, clunk, clunk. The wheel moves a good inch and a half. I grab my flashlight and peer into the wheel well. I look at the lower control arm ball joint. For those who don't speak mechanic, the ball joint is the pivot point. It's the hip joint of the car. It connects the control arm, which moves up and down to the steering knuckle, which holds the wheel. It's a ball in a socket surrounded by grease and protected by a rubber boot. On this Santa Fe, the rubber boot isn't just torn, it's gone. It's disintegrated. The grease left the chat three winters ago. What's left is a rusty dry steel ball rattling inside a rusty dry steel socket that has worn into an oval. I grab my pry bar, my 36 inch per suitor, and wedge it between the control arm and the knuckle. I barely apply any pressure.

5:09The entire knuckle jumps up. The ball stud is about to pop out of the socket. I'm actually impressed. Gravity and the weight of the vehicle are literally the only things keeping this front left wheel attached to the drivetrain. If she hits a pothole, the ball pops out. If she turns the wheel too hard to the right, the leverage pops it out. If she breaks too hard, the weight shift pops it out. When a ball joint separates on a McPherson strut suspension like this, it's violent. The bottom of the wheel loses its anchor, the top of the wheel jams into the fender. The CV axle, which drives the wheel, gets ripped out of the transmission because it's not designed to stretch that far. You lose steering, you lose power, and you lose about $2,000 to body damage and mechanical repairs instantly. This is a do not drive. This is a do not pass go. I finished the rest of the inspection, but honestly, nothing else matters. The brakes are at 4mm, getting low, but fine. The rear shocks are weeping a bit, normal for a Hyundai, but that ball joint is a ticking bomb.

6:12I do the oil change because I'm professional and that's what she's paying for. I swap the winter tires on, I torque the lugs. Then I wash my hands, specifically scrubbing the grease out of my fingernails because I know I'm about to have a conversation where my appearance will be judged, and I head to the front desk. The conversation. Dave is typing something. I slapped the clipboard down. Dave, the Santa Fe, it's a death trap. Dave stops typing, he says, how bad? Driver's lower ball joint is holding on by a wish. It has excessive axial and radial play. I could pull it apart with my bare hands. It cannot leave the shop. Okay, Dave says he looks at the estimate. Part is local, we can get it in an hour. It's a pressing ball joint on these, or we can just swap the whole control arm. Control arm is faster and safer at this point given the rust. Quote the whole arm, I say. The bushings are likely trash anyway, plus an alignment. Dave builds the quote, it comes to about $650 all in.

7:13Parts, labor, alignment, taxes, it's not cheap, but it's fair. Brenda, Dave calls out. Brenda stands up. She's wearing a blier, nice jeans. And boots that cost more than my weekly tool budget. She's tapping her phone against her leg. She walks to the counter with that specific briskness that says, I am busy and you are an obstacle. Is it done? She asks. The oil change and tires are done. Dave starts using his soothing, I have bad news voice. But the technician found a significant safety concern that we need to address immediately. Brenda's posture shifts instantly. She crosses her arms. Her chin goes up. The defense shields are up. What is it? I step in. Hi, ma'am. So while I had the car in the air, I checked the suspension. Your driver's side lower ball joint, the part that connects the wheel to the frame is failing. It's extremely loose. Lose, she repeats. Yes, it's worn out. The boot is torn and the metal is grinding. It's at the point of separation.

8:14If that joint separates while you're driving, the wheel will fold under the car. She stares at me. She looks me up and down. She sees the gray in my beard, the grease stain on my pocket, the name patch. I just had this car serviced, she says, three months ago at the quick-glube. They didn't say anything. Quick-glube places check fluids, I explained gently. They don't lift the car to check suspension. This kind of where happens over time, but once the boot tears, it accelerates fast, especially with the salt we use on the roads here. She lets out a sharp, derisive lap. Right, the salt. Look, I know how this works. Ma'am, I'm a woman. I walk into a mechanic shop. I ask for tires. Suddenly, my car, which drives perfectly fine, by the way, is on the verge of catastrophic failure. And the only way to save it is to give you what? $600? $642, Dave says quietly, looking at the screen. Unbelievable, she says. She turns to Dave, ignoring me. My husband drove this car yesterday.

9:14He didn't mention any noises. I drive it every day. It steers fine. You might not feel it on the highway. I try to explain, because the centrifugal force stabilizes the wheel, but at low speeds or over bumps, it's clunking. I guarantee you heard a clunk. I haven't, she lies. Or maybe she hasn't. Maybe the radio is always on blast. This is classic. You guys see a mom car and think, oh, she doesn't know anything. Let's scare her into a control arm. I've read about this. I take a deep breath. I'm tired. I just want to eat my sandwich. Ma'am, I've been a mechanic for 30 years. I don't care if you're a man, a woman, or a golden retriever. Physics is physics. That joint is metal on metal. It's not an upsell. It's a safety hazard. I'm not authorizing the work. She says, slowing her speech down like she's talking to a child. I want my keys. I want my car. I have to pick up my daughter. This is the point where I usually step back, but the image of that ball joint is burned

10:15into my retina. Ma'am, I say, voice dropping an octave. I cannot stress this enough. If you leave this lot, you are flipping a coin. If that wheel falls off at 60 miles per hour, you could cross the center line. You could hit someone. You could hurt your daughter. Her eyes flash. Don't you dare bring my daughter into this. Just because you want a commission doesn't mean you get to threaten me. Commission? I wish. I get paid hourly. I'm not threatening you, I say. I'm telling you the mechanical reality of your vehicle. Let me my keys, she demands. Dave looks at me. He's pale. He hates this. Okay, I say. Dave print the waiver. Dave prints the invoice. I grab the stamp. We have a specific stamp for this. It's red. It's aggressive. It says customer advised vehicle is unsafe, repaired, declined, vehicle not roadworthy. I stamp the paper. The sound echoes in the quiet office. Sump.

11:15I need you to sign this. I say, sliding the paper to her. This states we have told you the car is dangerous that the wheel is imminent failure and that you're refusing the repair against professional advice. It releases us from liability when it breaks. She looks at the red ink. She hesitates for a microsecond. A tiny flicker of doubt. But her pride squashes it. She grabs a pen. You guys are so dramatic, she mutters. She signs it with an angry scribble. Next time I'm going to the dealership, at least they're professional, you do that I say. It's not just something you made. It's the privilege that you get to work with your hands. It's building something that serves a purpose. Proof that you have the grit to keep going. At Timberland, we understand you take your craft seriously and we do too, which is why our products are built to the highest quality. We put in the work so you can perfect yours with purpose in every detail and crafted with incension. Timberland, built on craft, visit Timberland.com to shop.

12:19A departure. I walk back to the bay. I feel heavy. It's a mix of frustration and dread. I get into the Santa Fe. I start it. I have to move it from the lift to the parking lot. I treat the steering wheel like it's made of nitroglycerin. I put it in drive. I ease off the brake. I turn the wheel slightly to the left to clear the lift post. Clunk. It is. The steering feels dead in the center. Vag. Sloppy. I can feel the wheel shimmying even at walking speed because the alignment is now theoretical at best. I creep out of the bay door. I'm doing three miles per hour. I'm sweating. I don't want it to break on me because then she'll blame me for breaking it. I park it in the very first spot right against the building nose pointing out. This means she only has to drive straight for about 20 feet. Then turn right to exit the lot. I'm giving her the best possible odds. I bring the keys back. Dave hands them over.

13:19She pays for the oil change and the tire swap. Staring daggers at me the whole time. Have a nice day. She snaps. Drive safe. I say. And I mean it. I genuinely truly hope I'm wrong. I hope that rusty nub of a ball stud holds on for one more day so she can get home. She walks out the door chimes. Dave and I immediately walk to the large front window. It's instinct. It's the mechanics vigil. She's gonna make it. Dave asks. I give her a 50-50 shot of making the street. I say. We watch. She gets in. She adjusts her mirror. She puts on her seatbelt. She spends a moment on her phone, probably texting her husband about the botholes at the shop trying to scam her. She starts the car. The lights flicker on. She pulls out of the spot. Straight. So far. So good. She approaches the driveway exit. She has to turn right to get onto the main road. The driveway has a small dip where it meets the street. A standard gutter dip.

14:21She accelerates a little maybe 10 miles per hour. She cranks the wheel to the right. The failure. It happens in slow motion for me, but in real time it was instantaneous. As she turns the wheel, the lateral force pushes against the bottom of the tire. The control arm pushes out, the rusty socket finally gives up the ghost. Pop. It wasn't a metallic crunch yet. It was a pop like a cork coming out of a champagne bottle, but louder and deeper. The bottom of the driver's wheel swings outward no longer tethered to the car. The car continues moving forward for a split second, but the wheel is now sideways. The top of the tire slams into the strut tower and the fender. Crunch. Screech! The front left corner of the Santa Fe drops two feet. The subframe slams into the asphalt. The sudden stop is violent. The car lurches and dives. Because she was turning, the momentum pivots the car, dragging the now horizontal wheel

15:21across the pavement. We see the fender buckle. It crinkles like tin foil. The plastic bumper cover pops off its clips on the left side. And then the cherry on top, a dark red fluid starts pooling immediately under the front left. Axles gone, I say, sipping my terrible coffee. She is stopped. The car is sitting at a grotesque angle looking like a kneeling camel. She's blocking the exit completely. She's maybe 25 feet from where she parked. She didn't even get the rear tires onto the public road. She's in the office. Well Dave says, you called it. I hate being right, I say. It's too much paperwork. The aftermath. We watch Brenda. For a solid 10 seconds, she doesn't move. She's probably processing the fact that the earth just shifted under her car. Then the driver's door opens. She steps out. She looks shaken.

16:21She walks to the front of the car. She looks at the wheel. The wheel is fascinating to look at. It's almost completely flat on the ground face up. The axle is hanging out of the transmission, dripping automatic transmission fluid onto the lot. The fender is resting on the tire. She stares at it. Then she looks at the shop. She sees us in the window. The shock turns to rage. Pure unfiltered, embarrassed rage. She storms back into the office. She throws the door open so hard it hits the stopper. You broke my car. She screams. Her voice cracks. It was fine. I drove it here. You did something. You loosened something so this would happen. I'm calling the police. I'm suing you. Dave holds up a hand. He's trembling slightly, but he reaches for the paper on the counter. Ma'am, Dave says, don't you ma'am me. You sabotage my vehicle because I wouldn't pay your extortion fee. I step forward. I put my coffee down.

17:22Ma'am, stop. I want your manager. I want. I am the manager of the shop floor, I say. And you need to look at this. Dave slides the invoice forward. The red stamp is bright. The ink of her signature is barely dry. We told you exactly what was going to happen, I say. My voice steady. No anger. Just facts. We told you the ball joint was separated. We told you the wheel would fall off. You signed a legal waiver acknowledging that the wheel would fall off. You drove 20 feet. The wheel fell off. She looks at the paper. She looks at me. She looks out the window at her crippled SUV. But it was fine, she whispers. The fight is leaking out of her like the transmission fluid in the parking lot. It wasn't, I say. It was broken. Physics was just waiting for you to turn the wheel. Fix it, she says. Just fix it. We can, I say. But the estimate has changed. What? Why? I start counting on my fingers.

18:23Original quote, lower ball joint and alignment $642. New quote, I continue. Lower control arm because it's been ground into the pavement. CV axle because it's pulled out of the transmission and probably destroyed the splines. Transmission output seal. Transmission fluid flush and fill. Front fender liner. Fender repair and paint. We'll have to sub that out to the body shop down the street and a tow truck. A tow truck, she asks, eyes wide. It's in the parking lot. I can't drive it onto the lift, ma'am. It has three wheels. We have to drag it onto a flatbed. Drive at 25 feet to the bay doors and winch it in. That's a tow fee. She sinks into the waiting room chair. She puts her head in her hands. How much? Probably close her to $2,500 now, I say. Plus the bodywork. She doesn't scream. She doesn't accuse me of sexism. She just nods. Do you have a loner? She asked, voice small. We do, Dave says softly. I'll get the keys. I walk back out to the bay to grab the floor jack.

19:25I have to go jack up the front of her car in the freezing cold so the tow truck driver can get his dolly wheels underneath it. As I'm walking out, I pass the window. I see her sitting there, staring at the wall. I don't feel good about it. I don't feel vindicated. I just feel tired. It's a waste of money, a waste of a good car, and a waste of my Tuesday. But at least the waiver was signed. One thing I found pretty interesting in this story is that the mechanic didn't offer to take her back into the shop and show her the part on the vehicle itself. Show her that it was moving in ways that it's not supposed to be moving and what the actual danger was. Because that visual, I'm guessing probably like eight out of ten times would make the person realize there was a problem and maybe even scare them enough to have the repairs done before they leave. Doing that would have removed the ladies' gender argument because that ball joint doesn't care what you have between your legs. Now I did a little bit of research on this one right now because I'm thinking to myself,

20:28why did they even give her the keys back? Because it had to be illegal, right? But where I live in Ontario, Canada and most places in the US, it is not illegal to give the keys back. In fact, if the mechanic kept the keys after she paid for the oil change, he could be arrested for theft. The only legal obligation is a duty to warn and then having that waiver signed so the liability isn't on the mechanic or the shop. The only recourse they have is to get that signature, hand you the keys, watch you leave, and immediately call the police to tell them an unsafe vehicle is hitting the road. And we all know how much of a priority that will be for the police. Right. Alright, let me know in the comments down below on this one if you've ever had to sign a waiver and then had it blow up in your face or if you've had a customer sign a waiver and watched it blow up in their face. We'll go ahead and end this one here if you're not already make sure to be following us on your favorite podcasting platform and if you're on YouTube please drop a like on the

21:29video and a comment down below. It really does help us out. I thank each and every one of you for watching and listening. I hope you have a wonderful day and we'll see you in... Monster Energy Everybody knows White Monster Zero Ultra. That's the OG. It kicked off this whole zero sugar energy drink thing. But Ultra is a whole line of now. You've got strawberry dreams, blue Hawaiian, sunrise, and vice guava. And they all bring the Monster Energy punch. So if you've been living in the White Can, branch out. Ultra's got a flavor for every vibe and every single one is zero sugar. Tap the banner to learn more. In the next one.